Being Someone Who Pays Attention
by Leara Fiera
Summary: After years of ignorance and observation, Natasha wants to know the cause behind Clint's annual one-day depression. Without his knowledge, she uses favors to discover his greatest sadness and secret. Events make her contemplate if unraveling his secrets was the right thing to do.
1. Prologue

**Being Someone Who Pays Attention**

PROLOGUE

He thinks I pay no notice. He also knows I do. It is a dance between us, the knowledge of another's past. I let him believe I do not observe the solemn look of sadness and his inability to keep eye contact and anchor himself to the world on _that _day. I let him believe because he's done the same thing. It is like a wounded animal. We retreat when we mourn, when we deal. To extract oneself from our lives is the only means we own. Privacy is a simple and misinterpreted principle. There is no such thing. He and I are the closest thing I've ever encountered to be even remotely close to a point of mutual understanding, mutual solitude.

I do not flicker or flinch when I see people suffering. That does not mean I can walk away with a clear conscience. I don't believe I could anyway. If there is such a thing, if such a thing exists, mine will be the dirtiest of all, stained with the blood of so many. How many victims have there been? I do not know. It is not that victims have not mattered, although back then, I barely raised a brow at the mindless slaughter, but they have been wiped from my mind. Not knowing my own kill count destroys me slowly. Just as not knowing kills him. It may not be in the same way as a bullet, but on that particular day, the world just might have ended for Clint Barton. On that day, he lives in the could-have-beens of his mind, and it's unbearable to watch but someone will have to. I fear that he would do without supervision, just as he once feared what I would have done without his. In this world, falling asleep requires the most trust of all, and while I am honored to bear the privilege, it hurts me to see why such is required.

I've caused so much pain and suffering. Had I known, I would have had the courage to flee this life so long ago. Now I have duties, and a meaningless redemption. What does it matter, redemption, if I can only remember a spoonful of the blood I've spilled? When I'm at my weakest, he gives me the gentlest of comfort and I, in return, try to be there for him although incapable of the same tenderness and emotional attachment. If I speak of pain and hurt, he will know that I speak the truth, but outside what he's shown me I have endured little love and tenderness—the _true _kind. Luckily, or perhaps bitterly, it is not what he needs. He doesn't need a friend to be a shoulder to cry on—he needs a partner to cover for any mistakes and to pull him in when he gets too out of hand. I am that, especially on that day.

I do not compile dossiers on my partner. He's far too valuable for that and it'd be a break of the trust we've worked hard to establish. A break of the unsaid vow we agreed to. He's beginning to notice, though, even though I've tried to be subtle about it. I was a spy, one of the greatest spies, still _am_, but subconsciously I might have wanted to get caught. An unorthodox confrontation, but a confrontation nevertheless. I sent him a look of sadness and although it was barely an imitation of his, he was struck speechless by the tragedy relayed. He let go of my wrist and walked away.

I try not to pry, but I became what I imitate so long ago that it is no longer refutable. I extract knowledge as I provide services. My companionship has a price, but not in Clint's case, never in Clint's case. I will always be a spy even though I wish to some day be more. It is a foolish hope, childishly so, but if he is allowed his make-beliefs, am I not? I look out for him without being asked to. It has become utterly natural. He has healed me on so many occasions, taking me to the infirmary himself when I was sick and convulsing in pain, too proud to admit my body's defeat. He teases and we have our banter, but I know that I can trust him to have my back. That's what matters. We watch over each other, the watchers. So much we are stripped of, and he reminds me to remain being human even as I crumble. He does not give up on me, so why should I him?

I wonder, though, and I research. I know my words do a poor imitation of his healing hands, and my actions have yielded priceless results in the past. But I question myself, the hands that have done so much bad, can they do good, too? Of that I will always be skeptic. It forces Clint not to be, I guess. I am broken and on that day, I'd do anything to force him to be healing instead of burdened with sadness of immeasurable amount and a stillness that worries me. Certain things are sacred, even to us, and I respect my partner's wish to bear his cross, his hurt, in silence. I let him know, though, that he's not alone. I try so hard to be what he's been for me, but it lacks the results.

After years of being partnered with Clint Barton, I know him well. We have our secrets—I surely have mine, but not by choice, but because it would do more harm than good to share my worries. I say I know him because I can tell his behavior apart and predict the emotional outcomes. I'm sure he can do the same with me. It's a comfortable thought. It comforts me on dark missions or when faceless nightmares haunt my nights and he's away on missions. I never sleep well when he's away. It's not that I worry. I have seen his abilities with weaponry of all character: the odds are in his favor, but I've only recently come to realize that there's only one person I trust to watch over me while I sleep, while I'm truly vulnerable. I'll never voice it, but it helps me sleep at night.

Our lives are so alike that it frustrates me and breaks my heart to no end to see him suffer so easily. Like mine, his heart has been hardened by the things he's lived through, the things he's done, the things he's seen. He doesn't trust me enough to take part in the burden of his secret—or worse, he wants to, but considers it too much for another person to bear. It's foolish, I'm his partner, and I'm supposed to have his back. How can I do that if I can't even be allowed to handle his heart? Nevertheless, I accept his choice to be silent. But I cannot deny, or worse, remain passive while the man I've grown to trust—in my world, our world, in the modern world where the word love is so carelessly thrown about, that is a truest virtue—slowly succumbs to his own annual despondency on the insignificant day of February 19th.


	2. Chapter 1

I refer you to the prologue for things like disclaimer etc. They still apply. I'm taking some artistic liberty on certain characterization, primarily Barbara Morse and events described in this story. I admit, this chapter is mostly interaction rather than fact-finding. It's set, as you might have discovered, pre-Avengers and the rest of the MCU.

* * *

PART ONE

Disputes are the reason I have a job. However, I do as I'm told, even if it's against my wishes, because while I know struggle, I know defiance has an unthinkable price. It had when I was a little girl. Disputes would cause trouble. Trouble warranted punishments. Nobody endured punishments voluntarily at Red Room unless they were new and did so in a futile attempt to shield and protect a younger or weaker troublemaker. It was never done twice. Compassion was overruled by survival. It's taken years for me to regress to a point where compassion for human beings eventually could overrule the desire to skedaddle and not worry about casualties and survivors. There were two kinds of people outside Red Room, targets and witnesses, both of whom were dealt with swiftly. The others were of no consequence, and comparisons were drawn to fish in the sea and birds in the sky amongst our group of girls.

I was six years old and terrified the first time my hand clumsily grasped around the awkward shape of a handgun. I did not sob, and I was afraid to cry. That alone separated me from many of the girls, I've been told. Our numbers were reduced after that particular test. There were three girls who were never seen again. We were told they'd been sent to another school. Now I doubt they ever left the premises alive. I have been raised to be comfortable and skillful around guns and weapons of many kinds, and it was only as I started growing curious during missions that I discovered the unique case of my status quo. I shouldn't have questioned them. That was when the memory wipes started. Short-term memory failure due to electrotherapy. I was—I don't even remember how old.

We don't deal with children on S.H.I.E.L.D. missions. I'm glad, because I never know how to react to their childish foolishness. I was never naïve. I can pretend to be, and I do quite a good job, but so far, I've only had a handful of people see through the façade I choose to portray. Clint happens to be one of them. I try my best to express genuineness around him. It makes me less paranoid. But as his face is overtaken with sadness every year that day in February, I harden. I protect him. Rumors surface, and I might admit to my overprotective attitudes during that week, but I will not have to answer to my superiors for a brief change in behavior.

If I were brave, I would walk up to him and confront him head-on. I don't because I'm afraid that what he tells me will change everything. But over the years, after February 19ths spent watching the man I trust so utterly fall from his very own sky, I can no longer stand by. I dread its approach but am not aware until it's too late. I've tried distracting him with my own stories. He politely listens but he's in a place words cannot reach alone.

I'm a skilled at various martial arts and lifesaving field deftness; one easily forgets my linguistics training and hacker abilities. Red Room performed many terrors on my childhood mind, but the skillset they gave me at various ages—birthday gifts, a sentimental person might claim—have granted me a smooth entrance into espionage and the associated fields. I'm not arrogant and narcissistic like Stark. I _could_ hack S.H.I.E.L.D.'s databases and personnel files, but it would eventually be discovered and deemed unfit and suspicious behavior, and although I've been promoted to an operative fully deserving of the agency's trust, there are still some within the Council who deem me unfit for exemplary status and doubt my loyalties to their country.

I've never contemplated the idea of returning to Red Room since I was sent on my first S.H.I.E.L.D. mission. I considered escaping and returning to them as I was brought in, but curiosity got the better of me, and soon return would have been a withdrawal of the humanity I'd so briefly glimpsed. I decided never to consider it again, and so I never did. Life at S.H.I.E.L.D. is not the most humane job, but I deal. I've seen worse. So has many others; few start their careers at that place, coming from places far more extreme. I doubt I'm the only reformed criminal in their midst, but my reputation is perhaps the most shared amongst the staff. If I hacked Clint's file, I would never forgive myself. So I resort to other things, like making casual inquiries. I am a loner, so I need to be careful in my investigations not to arise any suspicion. I'm not exactly known for my curiosity and interest in my colleagues. I can never identify with their normal childhoods and, often, American humor. They're afraid of me. They should be, otherwise the job at S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to crush them.

I ask around, but most of the agents that were here before I arrived are dead, reassigned, or promoted, and I want to maintain the low-key element of my inquiring investigation. No useful answers are given, although I now know that half the female staff find my partner attractive—unsurprisingly, but while they do not verbally confirm it, their body languages are very telling—and I agree in their assessment that he's handsome, but I've known handsome men who were cruel and sadistic once the curtains closed. I know he's not one of them, but I do not value in physical attractiveness; besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. leaves me little downtime to take part in personal and sexual relationships. I'm dedicated because I need to be.

I enlist my resources on that little downtime to roam the corridors and lounges of the resident areas of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters. I cannot determine field seniority in age; there are people older than me who've had less experience due to my rather unorthodox training, and so I cannot totally rule out young agents as having known of Clint Barton before I came. I focus on being casual in lieu of intense. It causes less suspicion. I breathe subterfuge like oxygen. The first blunt that comes to mind is that of an object or trauma. If it yields results, I will use bluntness. But remember, I live with thieves and spies and mercenaries. Suspicion runs in their blood, or they'd be dead. However, their—well, some of them, at least—naïveté is inspiring. I aim to once cause that someday instead of bitterness and vindictiveness after having used my wiles to get what I want, which is really what S.H.I.E.L.D. wants. My own desires are an illusion in the world I live in.

I do not remember who tells me, which tells me I've done a sloppy job in procuring the information, or if it is a triggered memory, but while Clint is away on yet another stealth mission somewhere in the Amazonas, I am enlightened with the fact that he has once been married. After a while of thinking, it doesn't surprise me. He has family values from growing up, albeit overdressed with the traditions of a life in circus (when Clint told me that he'd worked in a circus, I thought he was joking, and he actually managed to get me to smile and laugh). He is a good man, an honorable man. It is not unthinkable to imagine him settling down with someone. I would have never reached that assessment without the evidence, of course, having seen his loner tendencies. Is that why he grows sentimentally distant on that day in February? Wedding day? He now lives in the residential quarters on base, whenever he rarely is 'home', so something changed. I cannot see the modern day Clint Barton, codenamed Hawkeye, go home to a wife when he roams the corridors about as much as I do. When he's not on missions, he is here.

With little substantial evidence, I choose to go to the one man who is revered and admired and respected amongst most of the knowledgeable agents and operatives. A man who will know or have access to the information I seek. A man who is totally immune to my charms and has admitted to such: the infamous Agent Phil Coulson, a man of true legend. Coulson portrays an all-American indifference and friendly aloofness, a façade to hide a more-than-decent martial arts capability. He would have been a good spy, and is on occasion, but even I underestimate his ability to completely change and morph into a weapon. It amuses him that I threw an almost childlike tantrum the first time I discovered that my skills as seductress left him unaffected. He is a dangerous man but he finds no attraction in women like me. While I know that now and appreciate him for staying a gentleman even in this occupation, it annoyed and frustrated me to no avail when I discovered that I, the Black Widow of Europe, held no power over such a man of influence (at least in the world of S.H.I.E.L.D. and espionage). His remarkability is his insignificance. Perhaps due to our mutual respect of the other's ability to shield their intentions and portray genuineness when deception resurfaced, I respect and steer myself clear of Coulson. I rarely interact with him, as my assignments are handed to me by Director Fury himself, but he deals with my partner and often our joined missions are supervised by Coulson. Fury is professionally fond of Coulson and trusted him 'from the moment they met', whereas I had been glaring and paranoid when I saw his face the first time as an armada of S.H.I.E.L.D. field operatives had led the extraction mission that had ended in my recruitment, detained in a seat across from him in the helicopter, piloted by some rookie agent. He'd ignored Clint the entire way to the facility—at first I'd mistaken it as anger, but a silent communication had taken place—and tension had arisen.

"Natasha," he says calmly but I know he's trying to assess me in his indifference and politeness. I pretend I don't see it; after all, it could be an occupational habit. I, for once, cannot merely stop noticing details unimportant to the untrained eye.

"Phil," I reply, going for a semi-cheerful response although my eyes are focused and determined. He knows that I'm not here for chitchat. I sit down across from him and avoid traveling my gaze over the different items in the furnished office. It's nice, but he's dissecting the notes in that one word. Is he surprised by my presence?

"I heard Bucharest went well," he congratulates without looking up. I'm patient enough to wait.

"It did," I state, mindlessly recalling the mission.

He sighs, puts down the fountain pen and bites his lip, looking up with a look of earnestness. He is in total control of his facial expressions but seems to take a couple of seconds to choose the right words. "You've been asking around."

I resume a militant stance. I remember a time where it was twelve preadolescent girls lining up for inspection, AK-47s held along their sides. Flashes hurt. I swallow and mask it as momentary confusion and surprise. "Yes," I confirm.

Absentmindedly, I trail my index finger along the edge of his desk. It's unsurprisingly clean. His face does not betray disapproval or disappointment. I've stopped looking for anything else. If anybody knows, Coulson will. He has access to every file of every field operative available to S.H.I.E.L.D.—and nobody is unavailable or inaccessible to S.H.I.E.L.D.—and he has been here long enough for Clint to trust him. He knows.

He folds his hands. "You made inquiries that are irrelevant to your status."

Coulson looks directly at me as he slides a file across the smooth surface of his desk. I know it; it's a manila file from before the era of computers and technological logs. The stamp labeled across the folder reads TOP SECRET – PROPERTY OF _Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division_, EYES ONLY. I've seen dozens of those, even stolen some. It's been a while, though, with modern technology and electricity overruling the paper and pen. I raise an eyebrow but he says nothing.

"It'll all go back to normal once your curiosity is quenched, I suppose," he muses and catches my eyes with a stern look. I nod, oddly nervous, knowing the response is not to the musing but to the silent subtext he communicates so well. I thought I was subtle. "Curiosity is a coveted trait in this line of work, as I'm sure you know, Romanoff, but need I remind you that curiosity killed the cat?"

I rise from the chair, smoothening my shirt, un-suspiciously grabbing the folder, but his hand has grabbed my wrist suddenly and unexpectedly, and it is a warning tone and look he sends my way. "Tread carefully, Natasha. Sometimes it is unwise to reopen wounds."

He lets go and I back away, startled. He resorts to his paperwork as if pretending nothing happened. It appears as if I'll need to revise my list of people who can read my intentions.

BEING SOMEONE WHO PAYS ATTENTION

Maybe it's following the saying _old habits die hard,_ but I prefer reading classified and confidential files in private, especially if it concerns matters everybody is not privy to. I calmly retreat to my private quarters, which requires an electronic keycard with a magnetic stripe that only myself, or somebody above class six clearances possesses to unlock. As the doors close behind me, I pause and inspect the manila folder. It's not molded as would be expected, but looks new in fact. The label on the side reads a fourteen-digit file name, but it's only as I open the file that I see letters that make words and data.

_Codename: Mockingbird_

_Name: Barbara Morse_

_Gender: Female_

_Height: 5'6_

_Recruitment: March 1994_

_Status: Resignation filed October 2003_

My eyes travel to the next paragraph, but I hear the telltale click of a keycard being swiped and accessing my door, and I shut the folder close and bend down and slide the folder under the cot, just in time to rise and see Clint enter, returning. I express my confusion but not my paranoia. Why do I not want him to see the file? It's not for him to know. I mean, I could have easily found the information the file contains when I researched my hunter during his manhunt of me. I learned about a lot of things in his past, a fact that I have admitted, but we don't talk about it. Whatever way _Mockingbird_ is related to my inquiries about February 19th, Coulson has deemed her important to Clint's annual mood swings.

"I didn't expect you back from South America until next week," I confess, trying to control my heightened heart rate, and the thought of how _married _that sounds makes me want to screw up my face. Luckily, the indifference in my voice helps him think nothing's wrong. I gaze him over. He hasn't slept, that I can tell from the dark shadows under his eyes. He looks exhausted and contused and lost. That's why he's here. I can count on one hand the times I've refused him entrance to my private quarters. Unlike many agents, he doesn't rant off. Sometimes, he just needs comfort and company. We're both prone to loneliness. Perhaps Mockingbird's file will reveal why he is.

"Things got complicated."

I shake my head in disagreement. "Things don't get complicated. They get easy," I state, thinking of all the times where undercover missions have gone to termination of all witnesses. He looks at me with a sad smile of understanding and we leave the topic. Then he breaks eye contact and gazes at the familiar surroundings. It's furnished much like his, Spartan at best. Although S.H.I.E.L.D. allows its agents to decorate their rooms however they please, few of us do. And by few, I exclude us, according to my verified data. We spend so little time here, only outside missions. Downtime means training, or more reflective meditation, or rest. I have books lined along the walls. Books of studies in various languages, Russian, English, Spanish, French, Latin even, volumes from different centuries and eras of fiction. If there is anything remotely personal in my quarters, something to remind me by when I'm gone, it'll be something as impersonal as books.

"When's your next mission?" he asks decisively as if contemplating leaving if I say tomorrow.

"The day after tomorrow. Rio," I inform him. He looks so tired, and he has the strap to his quiver in two fingers, making the quiver dangle near the ground. I knit my eyebrows in concern.

"I was wondering if you'd spar with me," Clint says, and I know that it's the company he seeks, not the bruise-making sparring he's offering. What did they do to him in the Amazonas? He won't tell me.

"Okay," I agree, "I'll just change. You look like you could use a shower. You can use mine, if you'd like."

He nods in understanding and I don't comment on why he hasn't been to his own quarters before coming here. Whatever he saw on his mission has left him a little less aloof than usual. He's the heart, and I'm the hand that pulls the trigger. If I'd been the one to terminate Black Widow, she'd be dead. I agreed to take care of him and repay that debt a long time ago.

He moves and I see the soreness in his muscles. _Christ, Clint, you want to spar when you can barely walk_. It is times like these I know my own insanity. I'd do the same. I hear the showerhead turn on, water running, and I take off the shirt so it won't wrinkle. I'm not vain, just in charge of cleaning and laundering my own clothes. My white bra is almost the same color as my skin. I zoom in on the door to the bathroom when I hear a thud. Concerned, I walk closer, knocking. "Clint?"

Years ago, I wouldn't have been able to express the genuine level of emotion that is now in my voice. I used to think it was a weakness, now I know it to be a worthy possible weakness that can only be exploited if you let it.

Muffled sounds. I hear the door handle being pressed down and the click of it being opened, followed by the sound of a limb being slit down wood. I open the door, and he's semi-collapsed against the sink, naked from the waist and up, water staining his scarred skin. His pupils are dilating and narrowing repeatedly, and I know from personal experience that his vision is blurry, and his heart rate is pounding. _Dammit, you fool_.

Unhesitant, I kneel down to help him to a sitting position, mentally oblivious to myself getting wet. I worry. His quiver has been discarded by the cabinet, and he's speaking rubbish. It would be not use summoning the medics; he'd just crawl out of the infirmary in the morning as if revitalized and nobody would dare confront him in his foul mood because he's Hawk-fucking-Eye and he never misses. I roll my eyes at the thought and watch as his tight pants soak and take my outfit with it also. I inspect his head for wounds and upon finding none, jab him to bring him to a mental state of wakefulness. He groans and I know he's all right.

"Come up, big fella," I instruct as I snake my arm around his waist and try to haul him upwards. Upon second attempt, we defy gravity and I have to lean against the threshold with my free hand to steady us. An unresponsive Clint is heavier than an alert one, it seems. The ground beneath us is slippery with water from the open shower cubicle. The water's still running, but I've made our way into the room before the stray thought comes upon me.

I try my best to put him down up against the metal frame of the cot, hoping the sheet will remedy the certain soreness he'll get from resting there. I proceed to strip myself of the most soaked clothes and reach for his belt buckle without thinking. We've never been awkward, and he's seen me nude on so many occasions that it'd surprise me if he'll protest at this point. He mumbles incoherent sentences that are surely grammatically incorrect as I peel the soaked pants off him, removing wet socks as well. Hooking my arms under his, I elevate him so he collapses into the cot rather than on the floor by it. The wet carpet is spongy beneath my feet, but I make sure he's semi-wet body is covered in my blanket and sheets before I start to think about the shower and my own appearance.

"Tasha… don't…," he gurgles. It's rather unattractive and anything he says as this point will be discarded as rubbish, but I stop anyway and listen. "You're my… home."

Then he makes a noise between a snort and snore and falls asleep within seconds after his confession. I wonder what caused this, whether or not it was the visit to a bar post-mission that was responsible for this emotional outbursts and physical collapse, but he's too heavy to carry and calling the infirmary nurses and having them intrude in my quarters seems wrong. He's nursed me before. I can repay the favor. How did it come down to this?

I watch him as he sleeps (after having removed all clothes, toweled myself, turned off the water, cleaned up, and redressed), my back against the metal frame of my cot. It's not uncomfortable, but I retire to against the wall after a while. It's more familiar to me. He snores lightly, but at least I know he's alive. I manage to forget about the file as I fall asleep next to my partner, hoping to have unburdened him somewhat.

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**Reviews are greatly appreciated and welcomed**


	3. Chapter 2

I refer you to the prologue for things like disclaimer etc. They still apply. I'm taking some artistic liberty on certain characterization, primarily Barbara Morse and events described in this story. It's set, as you might have discovered, pre-Avengers and the rest of the MCU.

If you have any questions whatsoever, comments or a friendly correction, please feel free to leave a comment.

* * *

PART TWO

After three capitals and two missions—Rio de Janeiro, Paris, and London—I come back, sporting a broken ankle from a roundhouse kick that was defended with a convenient concrete block, shattering two bones and making me limp undignified. After a rather irascible visit to the infirmary, I retreat like a wounded creature to my quarters, making sure nobody I meet dares to establish eye contact. It's surprisingly how much skill it takes to be intimidating when humiliatingly limping. Practice makes perfect, I suppose.

I spend three days re-reading Tolstoy's _War and Peace _in its original Russian, leaving my quarters only for meals in the mess hall. I loathe to be injured as it keeps me from extracurricular activities as well, training sessions especially. I'm not particularly fond of being still. I feel like I go crazy. I spent thirteen months in a Siberian prison once, mentally preying on everybody there. It was anything but pleasant, a total remembrance to Red Room, a psychological tribute of my very own breakdown. Ever since, I fret. I conceal it very well, but I am uncomfortable when forced to sit still and be obedient, which is irony at its best. I was bred to never flinch when opposed with horrors, never blink, and never show weakness. Siberia was cause to punishment and congratulation, which was as conflicting as it sounds. On one side, I hadn't broken, which showed my endurance. On the other hand, I'd gotten caught and it had taken me awhile to fulfill my tasked assignment.

Reflecting on my life and future is not a favorable way to pass time, so I attempt sleeping. However, frequent aches under the cast prevent more than two or three hours of rest at a time, and so I fret and read, practicing arts of penmanship and make-up appliance rather than butterfly kicks and open-hand strikes in the gyms. Needless to day, I am rolling my eyes at the ceiling and ready to retch by day four. I run my hand along the frame of the cot, dangling it over the ground, frowning as my fingers stumble upon something. Retrieving it, I am surprised to see the hurriedly stashed manila folder from two months ago. How did I manage to forget? I feel stupid for not having remembered sooner. I normally pay better attention to things that I deem important (or usually, things S.H.I.E.L.D. deems important). I open it and recognize the passages of text, written as if on some old-school typewriting machine.

_Codename: Mockingbird_

_Name: Barbara Morse_

_Gender: Female_

_Height: 5'6_

_Recruitment: March 1994_

_Status: Resignation filed October 2003_

_Call sign: Huntress_

_Aliases: Bobbi, Roberta, Dr. Roberta Morse_

_Partners (prof.): Clint Barton (1998—99, 2001—2003), Morgan DeLuca (2000), Felize Busiek (2000—01) _

_Partner(s) (per.): Clint Francis Barton (2000—2003, ex-husband)_

_Last known location: Detroit, Michigan, United States of America_

_Last known alias: Barbara Morrison_

It's one piece of paper as if the rest's been removed, seeing as the introductory paragraph about her recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D. leaves off without finishing the sentence. I suspect it was Coulson's intention when he handed me the folder. Mockingbird—Barbara Morse, I correct myself—was Clint's wife. They were only married for three years but in our line of business, that's long. People on the outside world use months and years and decades as units of time, whereas spies use missions, assignments, and training as durations of time. What does it matter how long the Siberian imprisonment took? It does not help counting the days as normal people would. Three years' worth of missions and healing, that's a lot. Even as I skim through the pages of medical history and mission debriefs, I see no formal resignation and therefore no reason explaining why she left. She had a feminine handwriting, I note, brushing my hand over the ink. Mine is more angular and practical, having spent years writing Russian Cyrillic letters before being trained in passing as fluent in the Roman alphabet. I do not envy the ease of which she well-practiced wrote without effort, but I do admire its simple beauty. She left, ending their marriage. However, as the dates are established and elaborated, I see no connection to February 19th.

They eloped and married in April, they met in July on their first mission together, there is no connection to February at all, except for a mission in Kiev, which she attended alone. It's during their professional partnership, not their marriage, and she got out unharmed. It's only as my fingers stumble across an old photograph, obviously taken by a paparazzo at some fancy event, because the woman in question is laughing courteously and wearing a semi-formal dress, champagne glass in hand. She has long brunette hair. It's a black and white photograph, taken with a Polaroid camera, so maybe not taken by the paparazzi. She's beautiful. I can see them together, although she seems so comfortable and Clint never is at such events. I flip the picture, surprised to see Clint's handwriting say _Bobbi, Vienna, 2002_. Bobbi, not very eloquent, but eloquence does not matter when it comes to nicknames.

I try to recall any brunettes employed at S.H.I.E.L.D. by the name of Bobbi around the time I was recruited (not that I had a choice beyond facing death row on charges of murder, espionage and kidnapping, to mention a few), coming up with a vague memory about Clint's backup, who could have easily been his partner.

Clint's decision to recruit me instead of assassinating me was not well-liked. In fact, he warned me that they might not cancel the hit and it was only due to his assurances that I came back with him. Fury and Coulson were furious with his decision but he vehemently defended his decision and my right to live and redeem myself. He said that my skills were hard to match, and in an attempt to remain objective, had claimed that it was an opportunity they couldn't hope to grasp during this lifetime. I offered insight into the various terrorist structures I'd known and visited (my employers liked to keep an eye on the international community and the competition) and underwent psychological and physical evaluations. I've never felt so impersonalized in my life, but I got used to it. Red Room surely hadn't paid attention to my personality and humanity, which was why the brunette's hostility towards me had been written off as the general disapproval of Clint's decision. They treated me like a criminal in their midst, with the ultimate caution and trigger-happiness, and I analyzed them as such, predicting escape routes if they decided Clint's project was no longer favorable. The brunette, Bobbi I now realize, was vocal in her accusations and disapproval but quieted in the presence of authority. She'd also been Clint's wife.

The thin file is not very forthcoming, but I've been trained to dig further. Sure, my ankle will slow me down, but not overly so. We may not have sick days, but I have downtime the next week until my ankle becomes even remotely stable to practice with. Doctor's orders. Detroit is a few hours travel by plane from here. Even then, I don't know how old 'last known location' is. It could be from right after the resignation. I mean, S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps itself updated with all assets and persons of interests, but unless she knows something that's worth something in the international espionage community, they might as well have let her go. Unless, of course, they decided that she was better off dead. Could that be why Clint does what he does, mourning his wife? S.H.I.E.L.D. has covered up a lot of things in the past; I wouldn't put it past them to have pretended to let her go instead of admitting to the fact that they terminated her. Truth has consequences that lies have not.

Suspicious behavior is frowned upon in S.H.I.E.L.D., but also oddly shrugged off as clandestine assignments. I walk with a limp to one of the computer terminals similar to those aboard the Helicarrier. With a simple username and password that is repeatedly changed every other week, I log in and am connected to databases and logs that are considered amongst the most secretive and inaccessible in the world. It is a collaboration of information from plain to deadly, and as I access the network of Detroit's motor vehicle database, I wonder if what I'm doing is right. What if she has relocated and knows nothing about February 19th? It is a ghost hunt, ridiculous and foolish at best. The odds are against me. Reality is not a puzzle with pieces that fit together to create perfect harmony and clarity. No, decisions intersect, people change their minds, mistakes occur. It is only in movies and novels that such occurs.

"Romanoff!" somebody shouts in greeting and I rise from my chair. It's one of the tactic team leaders whose name has escaped me. I send him a professional smile in acknowledgement. "I heard London went sour, eh?"

"I got the job done," I state matter-of-factly. "The ankle was just an inconvenience. But, hey, what can you do?"

Behind me, hopefully covered by my torso, the screen shows the search engine running. How many Barbara Morrisons can there be in Detroit with Michigan driver's licenses?

The tactic team leader smiles sheepishly. "I guess you're right. Get well soon, Romanoff. It's always a _pleasure_ working with you." If I hadn't spotted the wedding band on his hand, I would have assumed he was flirting with me, based on the tone he said pleasure with. I don't exclude it—many of my targets are married man—but I've never had the desire to entertain and pursue relationships with married men, even the flirtatious ones. None of the teams appreciate working ops with me as I can change the objectives and plan as I go, and have the authority to do so. That means it can go wrong quickly. Do I scare them? If it's a search-and-rescue, I'm focused, capable of leading half a dozen teams by earpiece. I've done so twice without major casualties. It would have been cause for recommendation at Red Room. I am revered amongst them. He should know better than to flirt with me if he's married.

He leaves and I return to my search. I'm far too familiar with the system to be confused with the data. It's been digitally flagged, alerting me to the fact that her name and any searches involving it are being surveyed by superiors, but I quickly memorize the little information before I backtrace my search and erase it from the system. It'll be written off as a technical glitz once it's been investigated by one of the techs. The bridge illustrated on the driver's license is fresh in my memory along with the current address of one _Barbara Morrison_. I look over my shoulder. It's worth it.

Surprise as it may be, it's actually hard to locate civilian clothes in the dresser in my room. It's mostly missionwear and training outfits. I'll have to stop by the clothes department or buy some on the way. I decide on the latter and dresses in the most colorful I have, which ends up being a light-gray t-shirt, black cargo pants and a golden-brown suede jacket. I adjust the shoulder strap of a duffel bag I keep under my cot (having emptied it of its abundant handguns) and squeeze the casted foot into practical sandals.

Booking plane tickets are not a problem, seeing as I have numerous aliases with full backstopped history, birth certificates, driver's licenses, passports, you name it. I use one not flagged by governments worldwide to purchase a plane ticket to Detroit. I stop by the nearest mall and shop for a weekend's worth of clothes that will help me fit in. Travel light, I learned from a very early age, because waiting for your luggage takes time you may not have when chased by danger. Waiting for the plane to be ready for boarding and departure grants me time to think about my choice. While easily explained as a need for a change in settings, what do I really expect of Detroit, even if I find Mockingbird? My quest for the answer to February 19 leaves me reckless and too hopeful for my own good. It's a lot of money to throw away (not that I lack them, as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s salaries are generous) if Morse has no clue why Clint acts this way every year. It makes me regret not simply having asked him. I've tried, but he shies away and shrugs it off, becoming irritable if I continue. If it were me behaving like that, he'd pester me until I gave in, but February 19 and whatever happened on that date make him blind to his own nonsense.

_I'm sorry it's come to this, Clint_. I close my eyes and stray my thoughts from distrust, imagining how one could even leave S.H.I.E.L.D. I can relate to wanting to, not that I find it an option—how can anyone be normal after seeing the things we see on a daily basis and be okay with its continual occurrence?—but how does one manage to strip oneself of everything that defines you? If you remove Red Room, S.H.I.E.L.D. and my partnership to Clint, leaving me only with my skills, I would be nobody. Now, I am nobody but with a purpose, with tasks given to me that'll hopefully save lives or prevent destruction. That's what I claim, when, really, it doesn't matter. S.H.I.E.L.D. might as well have been the bad guys. You learn to accommodate yourself. You learn to deal, to survive. You learn to live with yourself, and most important of all, you learn to serve your enemies.

What did Mockingbird do after she left her nest? I do not ask why, note you, because there are far too many reasons to why one would leave the horrible scenarios of S.H.I.E.L.D. You need to toughen if you plan to get to my security level. Most mercenaries learn that if criminals are the cold, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operatives, agents, and assassins are the frostbite to which you will lose your extremities. We are the contraband of the modern governments of today. Either way, how do you go from being that to a normal person? Physically, it's easy, but mentally, it's a horror. Terribly paranoid, used to being hunted and persecuted. How does a normal person live through that? Nightmares haunt me, nightmares no normal partner would be able to comprehend or understand. I only live through the lies because I have Clint to be honest towards. It stings in me to realize that I can't even claim that.

Unlike many others, I know how to succumb such guilt.

I board the plane without incident and manage to doze off during the ride, albeit momentarily. It's been a while since I've flown commercially. Quinjets and private planes take up most of my traveling. Luckily I avoid common sufferings like preadolescent children kicking their legs in the back of my seat or chatty seat-neighbors. Perhaps I come off as someone not to mess with. It's hard to tell. I could have opted for a friendlier persona, but my injury reminds me of its current weakness and my potential lack of speedy reaction time and response.

I glance at my papers out of sheer boredom, pulling it off as disinterested. _Meghan Blanche_. It won't flag anything or raise questions. In fact, it's one of the identities I keep separated from my fieldwork in case S.H.I.E.L.D. decides I am causing trouble (an unlikely scenario, but paranoia has brought me everywhere in the world and I have yet to see and embrace the finality of death). I suspect that, despite his apparent belief in the organization, Clint has that, too, but has somehow accepted that he isn't going to outsmart them. Having seen his training and skillsets, I wouldn't dare bet on it if I were a betting woman.

Few things and few landscapes manage to impress me anymore and Detroit is like any metropolitan city in my eyes. I prefer stealth over surprise attacks and ambushes, but I have to remind myself that this is so utterly mundane that guns go unneeded. The thought makes me smile. I have been among weapons of mass destruction capability longer than most Americans – despite their reputation for gun availability. I have been trained in many martial arts forms, and it brings me great annoyance to be crippled by a goddamn brick. I have learnt not to dwell on such things, but I must admit that I feel slightly better being off base, even if I need to be more alert to dangers. Meghan Blanche may not have any enemies, but I have made certain plenty of people have had my face etched into their retinas in hopes of recognition and retribution.

I have rarely been bestowed the choice to determine the battlefield, so I have less opinions on which scenery I prefer to be location of confrontation and gunfight than the average S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Most would find it pointless if they had been through what I have. I have learnt to work around obstacles. Does it make me less human to be so indecisive and find the options pointless? I didn't used to think that, but some part of me must have if I pose myself the question. Strange, how minds work.

BEING SOMEONE WHO PAYS ATTENTION

It feels obscenely strange to pull up to the curb of a suburban neighborhood, surreal even. Few missions take place in the suburbs and petty crime seems to be the only crime of occurrence. When I imagined the woman from the Vienna photograph settling down, it had not been in a place like this. I scold myself for making assumptions – and for being disappointed for having distorted my assumptions into something that behaved like truth in my mind – as I step out of the rental car, dressed casually, legs stiff from the car ride. Modern technology and GPS enable greater odds of tracking, for better or for worse. I can still recall a time where I had to rely on more primitive methods; perhaps that is why I am considered so dexterous and apt. I have not had the luxury of growing up in an environment where information is easily accessible and one's thirst for knowledge is quickly quenched. In fact, thirst for knowledge could have gotten you killed where and when I grew up.

I whistle under my breath, removing my sunglasses and throwing them onto the passenger's seat. I have changed my clothes and the gauze around my cast. I have no tendency of sweating when I'm nervous, but the wrappings seem moist already anyway. I have stopped second-guessing myself a long time ago, but listening to my body's reactions has saved my life on many occasions.

I smack the door, getting a 360-degree view of my current location. I force myself to act as if it's yet another undercover mission, relaxing where the sheer normalcy would have made me suspicious. It is noon on a weekend day; children are playing, running to catch up with their playmates' bicycles, playing double-dutch with colorful cords, and all the ridiculously innocent child plays that are portrayed on television today. Any woman my age—okay, the age of my appearance –would have been affected by it, and while it churns in my gut to see something so innocent, it is not out of a personal desire to partake. Normalcy would drive me mad. I perform an artform in killing and I'm good at it. I am not saying I'm addicted or that it'd kill me to give it up, but to give it up indefinitely and infinitely? I need a way to blow off steam. I'd rather not tell that to anyone, because there are all sorts of ways you can't fit me into a normal psych evaluation.

The sun is shining, the grass green, the wind slight. Perhaps if I closed my eyes and paid attention to my sense of smell, I'd be able to track the scent of apple-pie. It's bittersweet that I, an internationally acknowledged and certified assassin, mistress of disguises, would be out of my comfort zone in a place like this. Perhaps it's a sign that there truly is hope for the world. I'm no philosopher, so I'll leave it for them to settle.

The address on her driver's license match the house I'm currently walking towards. I force myself to slow down and appear less confrontational. It's an easy tasks, but with hundreds of conclusions and scenarios running through my head, it is strangely difficult. I'd have scolded Mockingbird for settling in such a neighborhood if I'd known her better, because the door is unlocked and nobody eyes me strangely when I enter the house. They accept me and draw the conclusion I'm her friend. And _that_ in itself is unsettling.

It's a nice neighborhood, and of course it's a nice house. Nothing betrays the illusion of a modern-day woman and possibly housewife. If I hadn't known, I would have said that there was no way this could be the residence of a former S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, but there are the smallest of traits to betray. Amidst chaos, there is a possible route of clearing, the furnishing leaves no narrow paths where escaping would be a problem. What's the old saying? You can take the woman out of espionage, but you can't take the espionage out of the woman. I'm sure I got it wrong. My private musings often do.

I listen to the creaks and the movements of an old house. I'll admit, it's not that old, but it does have that atmosphere of a place well frequented. I move into the living room, tiptoeing not to reveal my presence, listening to the sound of a faucet being turned on in what I presume to be the kitchen, the flow of water disturbed by hands or lettuce leafs or whatever. It doesn't puzzle me as much as what I'm about to see. Does Morrison still live here? In my haste, I forgot to check the name on the mailbox, drawn in by my own stupidity and rashness.

I approach the kitchen threshold, scouting for human shapes. She is standing, washing something under the faucet, wearing an apron of all things. She fits Mockingbird's physical description in height and distinguishing colors – Caucasian, brunette (although I see artificially bleached blonde strands), 5'6 – humming a song along to the radio. It is the complete opposite of an operative, but then again, she wouldn't have come as far in an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D. if she hadn't been able to deceive.

I accidentally knock a plastic cup on the corner of the kitchen counter off balance and it drops to the floor. I grasp for it and my movement isn't soundless albeit quick. She spins around, grabbing the nearest object of possible malicious and harmful intent, a ready expression in her eyes that contradicts the innocent look of her bob cut. I recall the long brunette locks from the photo as I stealthily put the plastic cup back, eyes never leaving hers. It's her. Even if I hadn't had the physical description from her case file and the accompanying photo, I'd have recognized her.

The first time Clint had taken me to the S.H.I.E.L.D. gym for sparring opportunities, I'd gone along for his sake. I have never been extrovert when it comes to socializing although it is in my skillset to be, and it would have make habilitation easier. Their operatives were more than wary of me and I was treated as the villain I had been. While proud of my accomplishments, I had not been in a mood to worsen my situation. The majority of the suspicious agents weren't confrontational, but it had changed when Clint had been called away and insisted I remained to finish my lesson with a piece of equipment that satisfied a quarter of my daily need for exercise. I had been held up in isolation for days, visits only by Clint or yet another evaluation. Even I got frustrated. Most had been wise or stupid enough to back off, but not Bobbi Morse – _Mockingbird_. Only now I ponder if it was jealousy – unjustified as the emotion often manifests as – that led her to confront me in the sparring ring. Fool I was, I accepted, looking forward to an actual challenge if not for the mental exercise as well. Even strategists need to flex their muscles once in a while.

Mockingbird had done good, but so had I. I was frustrated by my almost imprisoned state and fueled by arrogance that I had actually disarmed my former hunter, the oh-so famous Hawkeye that morning as he entered my quarters (playfully, of course). Quite the crowd had gathered and neither of us had walked away unhurt. In fact, as I recall, the last I remember from that fight is staring up at her dizzied by a blow to the head as her fist buried itself upon my flesh. People have told me otherwise, but I stick to what I remember. She won the fight.

She has the same gleam in her eye now. Protective, deeply suspicious, only now she's armed with a kitchen knife whose length actually could threaten my life. She is no extraordinary beauty, but she does possess some coveted traits of modern beauty. She's in good shape, too, although I suspect I am able to take her in a fight, should it come to that. Estimating by the look in her eyes, it may very well come to that. Her voice is low and all business despite her state of dress: "What is your purpose here, assassin?"

I raise my arms somewhat in surrender. She is not my enemy, but when we saw each other last, she suspected I was hers. Things may not have changed from her perspective. I swallow before I speak. "S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't send me. I came on my own."

This doesn't seem to comfort her. If anything, she grabs tightly around the handle of the knife to the point where her hands whiten and her hazel eyes narrow and focus. I'd like to know what she is thinking but a thousand thoughts pass across her face and yet she manages to conceal half of them. How am I to know which ones concern the current situation? "_Yes? How is that any comfort? You have killed so many, Romanova. I'll put up a fight_," she spits in broken Russian, so low that the running water behind her almost deafens her words.

I switch to English, as hearing me speak my mother tongue will only convince her of my former alliances. It is true that Red Room trained me for later service in the KGB and overall, USSR. She is American and loathes me for many reasons, half of which I am unaware. I recognize the body language's words for caution, though, and resentment. "I work with Clint," I say, expressing honesty.

She reacts to the name but chooses to mask it. Curious. She relaxes some. I continue speaking. "For S.H.I.E.L.D. I wasn't sent to kill you, Mockingbird."

"I haven't heard that name in a while," she confesses, and loosens her grip on the knife. "If my neighbors saw me, they'd think I was crazy," she says as if she almost believes their would-be conclusion.

"I got that," I reply, gesturing towards the friendly neighborhood displayed before us through the kitchen window. "But you'd be stupid to let go of your knife, given what you know about me. However, given what you know about me, you also know that if I'd come to kill you, you'd be dead." I pause, considering. "And that S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't have sent me if they wanted it to look like an accident."

She exhales and places the knife on the cutting board next to her, shifty. "True. But I haven't heard from S.H.I.E.L.D. for years. They could have changed. I'm no longer involved in their operations."

Her hazel eyes never leave my body. Clever girl. "Lucky. That's what I'm here to talk to you about. Not why you left," I quickly say upon seeing her confused expression morph into alert. "Who you—."

I never get to finish the sentence. For once, it is not gunshots or other violent acts that interrupt my inquiry, but the loud emergence of two children that come running through the door from the backyard to the kitchen. They are young, similar in size and presumably age, no older than five years at most. However, I have no experience estimating child ages and could be wrong. The mere presence makes my eyes shoot questioningly to the woman beside me, who starts reprimanding their pace and muddy shoes as if I was a mere illusion:

"Hunter! Dylan! No running in the kitchen!" she says with a raised voice. The blondest of the boys, holding some sort of foam weapon that resembles a scythe, ceases running.

"Sorry, mom!" he apologizes, attention on the other boy who was stopped, too, but is awaiting encouragement to continue their would-be game. I stand, startled, unable to keep my brain from dissecting what I see and making conclusions—_assumptions_. But, 'Mom'? There are only few excuses for the usage of that moniker, few of which a young child could understand.

"Sorry, Ms. Morrison!" the boy reply, possibly due to his upbringing and manners rather than genuine regret.

Barbara—identity confirmed, never to be denied—is tense, but manages to send them off stiffly before neither of the boys start asking questions as children are prone to do. Once they are out of earshot, their departing footsteps disappearing upstairs, presumably to a collection of toys adequate for their age, she turns towards me, viperous.

_"_You dyed your hair. Fitting," she spits but her voice lacks the vehemence and passion to pull it off. Instead, she sighs and sags her shoulders.

Last time she saw me, I was still a blonde. That was, what, five months into my S.H.I.E.L.D. recruitment? I have been a redhead for some time. I, however, remain unbaffled by her attempt at viciousness. "You have a son."

Disbelief must have penetrated, because her hazel eyes are protective and emotive. "Yes," she confesses. "Hunter."

I lean against the counter for support. I may not have glimpsed the blonde boy for long, but brief is what I base most of my identifications on. Suddenly February 19th seems unimportant. I usually handle surprises well, but perhaps it's because I know Clint that I find this so hard to process. I would recognize that special shade of blue-green eyes anywhere. I'm so sued to see it try to dissect me when I refuse to tell my partner what's wrong. "He's Clint's, isn't he?"

She hesitates, settling her look on my face as if trying to tell if she'll be able to pull off the lie. I don't know what she sees there – care, perhaps – but it shatters the tension in her face, and she nods. "Yes."

I bite my lip. I came her for answers, not for the discovery of things my partner has kept from me. It shouldn't bother me, yet it does. However, that is overruled by the disbelieving news that Clint Barton, full-time agent and part-time human being has a son, and that all I knew him to be is rocked off balance. A deeper question settles within me, one I don't feel comfortable asking myself, least of all answer: would I have told Clint? The correct answer is yes, but it may not be the honest one.

_Stop_, I tell myself. This is not about me. I just partake in the mission to bring clarity to Clint's reaction o February 19th.

"You care." She sounds just as disbelieving as I feel. I glance up, try to keep my hands steady as I rank my back.

"He's my partner," is the automatic reply that escapes my mouth before I can even think. Something unreadable crosses her face. My turn. "When… when is his birthday?"

_Do you know, partner? That you have a son who looks heartbreakingly like an innocent version of yourself?_

"February 22, 2004," she announces, clearly not seeing why it makes me breathless to pose such a question.

_She called your son Hunter._

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**Reviews are greatly appreciated, please.**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** The end of the "introduction" part of this story. How have you liked it so far?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any recognizable characters, and they belong to their respective owners in several canons.

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PART THREE

"Agent Romanoff."

It's more of a groan than an alert response to seeing the ever-telling blocked cell number accompanying a grim picture of Phil Coulson on my phone at four in the morning. I roll off the couch, just barely avoiding making contact with the cool surface of the glass coffee table that has been pushed away to make room for my scarce personal items. I could have left them in my car – and offered to, when the owner of the house assumed I had brought a gun with me – but Barbara insisted on it, sharing a knowing look with me that informed me that it was what she'd have preferred when she was on operative.

Barbara—her name tastes foreign on my tongue because it implies a friendship that's not there—and I are two very different kind of operatives. Last night she let me in on how she'd been recruited, albeit unintentionally, and although she is no longer openly hostile, it seems as if she is waiting for the other shoe to drop. I would have, too. However, I certainly wasn't recruited from a university and allowed options within my agency.

"_Natasha_," the owner of the number states. His vice betrays no exhaustion or wakefulness. Mine can be, too, but I require sleep for it to happen. The only reason I didn't let it ring was to avoid waking Barbara and Hunter, not out of a willingness to talk to my sometimes-handler at four sixteen in the morning, local time. Although I'm sure he knows my location, he doesn't mention it. Perhaps it was a Coulson impression Barbara had been trying to do when she threatened me upon my arrival. I'm not sure I know anybody who'd be successful.

"Phil," I say, wishing to cut the pleasantries but keeping my voice low as I slip out of the living room into the kitchen. I wonder if he calls to sell me out or assign me a new mission. As I stumble my casted foot into the counter, I recall why the latter cannot be true – along with a fair amount of Russian profanities that would make any Russian blush.

"_Fury wants you in. He said something about consulting on the Queenstown case_," the man I've come to loathe these past twenty seconds relays. I recall the incident. A failed mission, although not on my part. The cover simply wasn't interesting enough for the terrorist group to absorb into their organization. The cover had been canceled, supposedly moved out of town when I had been required for a more imminent mission. I had no idea whom S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent in instead, but I didn't dwell on missions. Frankly, I can't see why or how any information I have would be valid to the operation, considering my lack of success with the young crew. I suspect Phil knows that, too, but it isn't my place to call his bluff.

"When?" I ask. Neither of us are chatty at this hour. Scratch that: I doubt Phil is ever chatty. If so, I have yet to experience it. I'm sure most people would include me in the same conclusion. 'Chatty' is so hard to express genuinely.

I listen for the response, but hear a sound coming from somewhere in the house. I halt everything, including my breath, as I see a sleepy-eyed Hunter fumble for the handle to fridge, close enough for me to be able to grab unto him if I took two steps. He barely seems awake, and I won't be able to answer his questions truthfully, so I keep quiet, sticking to the shadows, forgetting about Phil and the phone call I'm currently having. In the light from the refrigerator, I can trace the line of his nose and mouth, and I have to be honest. He resembles Clint enough to make me stand there, dumbfounded, to appreciate the illusion of how Clint could have grown up, had tragedy of life not happened to him. I have had to put the lit screen of my phone against my chest to avoid being detected by a five-year-old child, and I am pretty sure that by the time Hunter has stumbled back upstairs to his bed, and I have gotten my head wrapped around the startling resemblance between my partner and his son, Phil is aware I'm not listening, and that my heart has been racing.

"Sorry, when?" I say, feigning interruption.

"_Are you okay, Natasha?_" he asks, and I have to give him credit for the care I hear in his voice, deliberately planted, as concern for me, as a co-worker or friend, is a rare occurrence if it doesn't question my abilities to take care of myself and perform my job.

"Sure. Just thought I heard something," I reply absentmindedly. I don't know why I'm not honest. Perhaps because I suspect he is not? There is lie by omission and withholding knowledge, and then there's being mean. Or, in Phil's case, nondisclosure agreements and classified information. Another reason why we won't ever be pals.

"He wants you here tomorrow morning, 0500 hours," the agent says, and whatever suspicion I traced in his voice before is gone. He hesitates to hang up, but apparently decides against it, deciding that his previous warning has been enough (what can I say, I've learnt to analyze hesitation as well as choice of words). "Good morning, Agent Romanoff."

The familiar click announces the end of the phone call before I can reprimand him for calling so early with news that could have waited. Barely have my thoughts passed through my mind before I receive a text message about the time of my plane's departure. I wouldn't have tolerated this behavior in person, or maybe I would. Then again – it is half past four in the morning, so any judgments are invalid at this point.

BEING SOMEONE WHO PAYS ATTENTION

I manage to rest but not sleep for two more hours until someone stirs upstairs. I don't require much sleep, so I am by no means cranky by the time I redress and the rays from Barbara's shower have ceased. It is strange to be in the home of someone so isolated from the life I lead – and by own choice. Most retirements are made by death, not choice. After discovering the existence of Hunter (and possible cause to despondent February 19ths), I see evidence of child residents everywhere. I am so used to analyzing surroundings that I find it hard to simply appreciate Barbara's offer.

It makes sense now; that Bobbi Morse – or rather, Barbara Morrison – chose to settle in the suburbs of Detroit. I asked her last night what a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent does career-wise, and I was surprised, but not truly, by her reply. It involved how she was recruited – the non-classified version, anyway – because she had been studying law when she was recruited. She now works as a private consultant for a law firm that occasionally work with the District Attorney's Office. I suppose it is as good a career choice as any to substitute for the enforcement aspect of S.H.I.E.L.D. employment.

I cannot pretend that we have somehow bonded into an unbreakable friendship, but after seeing the confession on my face that I cared about Clint and my reassurances that I have been loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. for years, she seemed to believe me enough to extend an invitation. I can't determine if it is foolish or not, or if her skills as a spy have faded through the last five years into incompetence. I don't know if she pities me for being stuck in a life she has escaped or if she considers it payment for whatever I've done wrong on a karmic scale to must suffer in the job she used to perform. It is a wrongful assumption, because when her operational field status had limitations mine doesn't. I am not sure, but I think my clearance succeeds hers. Then again, we worked in different division, even if we were – are – used for different purposes within espionage.

"Good morning, Barbara," I say when she enters the kitchen. I haven't been upstairs, figuring it would unnerve her on a maternal level and perhaps professional one as well. She _did _call me assassin, a title I cannot deny. I am still absorbing the fact that Clint has a son, and yet he is such a dedicated S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. To me, those two are mutually exclusive. I know a couple of agents who have families and children of their own, but not operatives in the sense of me and Clint. I am hesitant to ask.

"Good morning, Romanova," she replies stiffly, which I assume to be out of fatigue and inconvenience rather than ill intent. "Slept well?"

I nod, nursing a mug with nice warm beverage. "I'm leaving today. I'm grateful for the couch, though. And, well, everything," I say, making certain that she knows I appreciate her honesty. I disclose no classified information, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she understands that I got a call.

"You're Clint's partner. I know how it is to be Clint's partner," she admits, sipping a mug of freshly poured tea. She is a beautiful woman, young enough to remarry and have children besides Hunter, but the tone she gets when she mentions Clint – the slightest of flinches – reveals that she hasn't moved on, and perhaps they left on crude terms. I see no evidence of a man in Barbara's life and all the photographs in the house are of Hunter and similarly aged children, Barbara and Hunter, or Barbara and girlfriends. It must be lonely. I can't imagine tearing myself away from Clint although I know I am capable to if required.

She must have sensed awkwardness settling. "What happened to your foot? I saw the cast yesterday, but forgot to ask."

A lie. She chose not to ask because it's too casual a question and yet too personal. I shrug. "Nothing interesting. It's healing."

There are so many signs and so many questions behind those hazel eyes, but both of us know not to ask. I guess espionage never truly left Bobbi Morse. And I suppose it's nice to have someone understand, even if it's somebody you used to loathe.

"I came here because of Clint. His behavior. I figured you of all people would know. It doesn't annoy me, but it compromises him. Does the date February 19th mean anything to you? I know you said Hunter's birthday was February 22, but—."

She cuts me off. "February 19th was my scheduled due date. I told him a couple days before I…" She pauses, eyes glinting with moisture. "Before I left. Hunter decided to arrive late to the party. If that's not it, I don't know. I can't think of anything. I'm sorry."

The way she says it makes me think that it is not an apology for her inability to remember but the reason why she left in the first place. "Clint knew about Hunter?" I ask in something that sounds suspiciously like disbelief. I can't phantom Clint abandoning a child and its mother.

"He did," she confirms in a murmur, looking intensely into the tea mug. "Hunter wasn't the only reason I left S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha, there were a lot of reasons. Mostly I discovered because I was pregnant," she adds ambiguously.

I wait a minute before speaking, leaving enough time for her to gather and compose herself. "You were pregnant when you beat me up," I realize, recalling the well-thrown – and fierce – punches I had been on the receiving end of.

"You still remember that?" she asks in disbelief. "It's been so long. You must have been through so much since then if you're still with S.H.I.E.L.D." And it's there, _if you've managed to get Clint as a partner._

"I tend to remember the few people who've managed to knock me out. It's not a long list," I reply, not knowing why I'm letting her know that she outdid me. Perhaps it's my apology for coming into her life and taking old demons with me to revisit her. She's right about what I have experienced since. I didn't connect the dots and her name until I had a picture and I didn't connect the picture to the person until I saw her. I would have called it incompetence if it had been a mission. Strangely, in this case, nobody got hurt because of it.

"I suppose so," she murmurs absentmindedly.

I know I shouldn't have come here. I didn't know that when I came here, but I do now. I am a reminder of S.H.I.E.L.D. and thus a reminder of Clint. Maybe it's the other way around: I am a reminder of Clint, and thus a reminder of the organization that exposed her to the ruthlessness of humanity. I am an observer to the life of sheer normalcy that takes place in the Morrison residence. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Barbara Morse succeeds where I have already failed myself. We're different, though. Barbara's body will age to accommodate her new lifestyle. Mine won't.

Soon, Hunter is up and about, today without his companion, Dylan, and although I am hardly one for the same stillness required for complete observation that Clint himself possesses, I find myself intrigued by his existence.

He is active, constantly moving about. His blond hair is in need of a haircut, nearly hiding those very-Clint-like eyes. He accepts my presence with a boyish shyness like someone who hasn't ever been tricked or abandoned. I wonder what Barbara tells him when he asks about his father – surely he must have pondered why they live by themselves – but he's five years old, no deep thinker. He's been alive for as long as I've been working for S.H.I.E.L.D., working with Clint Barton, his archer father. I also wonder if Clint deliberately keeps his distance, but by the time it reaches noontime, I am certain that Clint hasn't tried tracked them down. If he had, he wouldn't have been able to walk away from a boy whose favorite pursuit happens to be playing with a bow and four arrows that leave powder on the make-shift bull's eye in the backyard. Most of all, I become aware of how easy it is to pretend I'm someone else around Hunter even though I have only known of him for a day.

The phone rings, and I watch the pots and pans while Barbara answers. She signals that it's work, as if I wouldn't be aware by the way her tone changes into the pleasantries that accompany client calls. I know that voice from many missions. Missions, if anything, educate you.

"Mom, it's stuck in the tree again," Hunter comes in, complaining, a pout on his face. If he's lucky, that will be the worst of his problems throughout his life thanks to people like Clint, me, and… I suppose Barbara, too.

"Wait, Hunter, I'm busy," his mother insists, slight annoyance but true inconvenience shining through.

"I can help you," I offer, sending the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent a look that seeks approval. I have noticed that she still tenses when I'm around her son. Considering the person I was when she met me, it's justified. "If that's alright."

She hesitates for a moment, but whatever client she is speaking to is evidently important. "Sure."

Hunter is happy to hear that someone's willing to help him and declares a gleeful "Great!" before running to the tree in question in the backyard. I follow behind, pace less enthusiastic, remembering the black-and-yellow painted bull's eye on the wood to indicate targets for target practice. I find his interest for the 'horribly outdated weapon' amusing. Clint's words, by the way, when I first met him.

I inspect the wood before pulling the arrow out without hesitation, a feat that apparently causes Hunter to stare at me wide-eyed with a look that resembles hero-worship.

"Whoa, you're strong. You didn't even blink an eye!" he exclaims.

"Your aim's pretty good. For a five-year-old," I note.

He proudly announces: "I practice. Mom doesn't like it, though."

I can't imagine why. With the physical resemblance – at least to people who've known Clint well, as myself and Barbara – he shares with his father, having the hobby of archery must take its toll on his mother. Sadly, he cannot know why, _ever._

"Everybody needs something. Here, let me show you," I say, getting an idea. I gesture for the bow and arrow just as I see Barbara, phone call ended, watch from the kitchen window. I kneel down next to Hunter to show him a shooting tip I learned from Clint a while ago when I had made a remark about accuracy and had been dragged down to the shooting range to 'try it myself'. I have a fondness for guns and knives and Clint's reluctance to use either over his beloved bow amuses me greatly—especially when I could get a reaction out of him that would implement several lessons which left my knuckles and palms sore.

I give him instructions, letting him trace where my hands rest at the would-be bow, remembering Clint's guidance. "You stretch like this and put the arrow here—no, not there, here—like this, and close one eye and—aim."

The arrow flies through the air, swirling like a miniature beast and hits mid-center, its worn feathers angling from abuse. _If only your father could see you_, I muse wistfully.

"Whoa!" exclaims Hunter.

I gesture towards the retrieved arrow. "Now, you try."

He tries, more uncertain, but I keep my instructions to myself this time, wanting to see if he remembers—he hits an inch off center. "Wow."

Roping in my surprise and sense of déjà vu, I reply: "See, with a little guidance, you'll be an archer in no time. I'd suggest putting the target a little lower, though, so you won't have to keep getting your mom."

I clasp my hand around his shoulder, not knowing why but unnerved at how it feels right. If the world was right, it should be Clint instructing, and it should have been Clint being really bad at it because he wouldn't be the great archer he is, because terrible things wouldn't have forced him to be so damn good at it. I blink away rebellious tears before I sniffle.

He's mesmerized by the bow, more than before if even possible. "Okay. Hey, what's your name?" he calls out as I make my way back to the kitchen, knowing I'll have to depart now, an hour earlier, because if I don't, I won't be able to lie to Clint about where I've been.

"Natasha," I say before I can think. It hasn't been Meghan Blanche visiting the Morrisons, and I know it.

"My name's Hunter."

_I know, beautiful boy. May you never have to live up to it. _

BEING SOMEONE WHO PAYS ATTENTION

I return to S.H.I.E.L.D. as if nothing happened during my retreat to Detroit, Michigan. If my digital snooping around has been detected, I hear none of it upon my immediate arrival, but then again, both Fury and Coulson have been known to keep such things under lock until the time where it fits them adequate to require payment for a favor one unknown. I try my best to keep any evidence of softening on my part off my face as I limping enter one of the many videoconference rooms, the one to which I have been summoned.

I have been sent here the minute I stepped into the building; I even had to get a rookie agent to bring my duffel bag to the hallway of my quarters. Fearing a reprimand, I was surprised to find Fury engrossed in the Queenstown reports (this wasn't what surprised me) and without any intent to scold me on misbehavior. I sat down, briefing him on the small things that hadn't gone in the carefully drawn evaluations of the group-members I _had_ encountered and detailed reports. Despite common belief, gut feelings cannot go in the reports unjustified, and although many agents use fancy terms to justify a spontaneous sensation about a subject, I do not. My teachers spend a significant time making sure that I had the necessary education to profile possible targets and enemies and to distinguish between the two. Sadly, Fury knows that. It was part of the complete report of my pardon, more than half of which is deeply classified and exists in raw copy only.

"May I be frank, Director?" I ask after working several hours. As on the destination flight, I go very little rest. No personnel have joined us in the large table, which is currently flooding with papers and maps in a very incoherent matter. I have the deepest amount of respect for Nicholas Fury, but I also know my own limits and how long I can go without snapping.

"Yes, Agent Romanoff, you may," he says tiredly, shifting through papers that I can practically recite from memory by now.

"I do not understand why I was summoned here. I only worked the Queenstown op for three weeks. Not that it is my call, but I can't see how I can enlighten about the agenda of this group."

"You're right, Romanoff. You didn't get close to actually join the Turquoise Dragon, but you got to know the members pretty well."

"Not enough for them to trust me," I point out rather obviously. The male members targeted kept in a group and they fancied me more than they appreciated the skills my cover could bring to their organization. I strongly suspected that whomever S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent in now, it had been a male operative.

"No, but enough for them to flirt with you," Fury says, returning to the paperwork from the brief one-on-one encouragement. His voice goes casual. "Besides, Coulson said you were going mad with that ankle."

The other shoe just dropped. Perhaps Fury knows, perhaps he doesn't know that I sought out Clint's ex-wife and subsequently, his son, and used S.H.I.E.L.D. access to do so, but he says nothing and I'm let to conclude that it is merely excellent planning on Coulson's part. The man has always been fiercely protective of Clint, and I know that he cares more for him than what should be proper for a handler, but on the other hand, it's nice that someone else cares, too, when Clint does something to hurt himself or get himself hurt. I can now add Barbara to that list, but I cannot help but wonder if Coulson merely wanted me to see but not touch Clint's past.

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